Shadow & Flame
by Theo1379
Summary: 4000 years after the War of the Ring, darkness is again stirring in Middle Earth. Gondor has turned to the worship of Morgoth, and only a small band of elves stand between Arda and destruction. Warning: swearing and violence.
1. The Voice of God

Ok, this is my first story so please be kind.

Just a few explanatory notes: I once read that Tolkien considered writing another book after "Lord of the Rings" called "The Return of the Shadow", which would be set some time after the events of LOTR, and would be about the humans returning to the worship of darkness. He never wrote it, however, because he felt it wasn't important enough: it wasn't about good and evil, just humans being foolish. Well, I think that given the dangerous force that human stupidity can be (excuse me for being political…), that's as good a topic as any to write about. So this is me attempting, in a form and quality much less than what the master himself would have produced, to tell that story.

This is set around 4000 years after the events in LOTR, so Middle Earth has advanced somewhat. Gondor, as well as ruling the Reunited Kingdom also has control over much of the South East, and parts of Rohan as well – in effect, it has become an empire. At the time in which this story is set, the empire is ruled by a descendant of Aragorn, called Mellonel Telcontar. However, Mellonel isn't much like his ancestor. He is power-hungry and corrupt. He is also terrified of his own mortality, and thus has made it is goal to bring the Gondorian empire the glory of Númenor of old. Through dubious means, he has come to the throne under the name Ar-Pharazôn. And, like the ancient king of Númenor from who he takes his name, he has introduced the brutal Morgothian religion to Gondor – a belief that immortality can be gained for the humans…in exchange for blood sacrifices to the Dark Lord Melkor. Non-humans (especially Elves) are persecuted, and many are sacrificed in the temples.

And it is amidst this bleak series of events that our story begins…

(PS. Most of these characters and ideas belong to Tolkien, I make no money out of them.)

Chapter One – The Voice of God

There was incense swirling in a great miasma above the heads of the heaving crowd. Ar-Inzilaphel breathed it in deeply. She smiled, her pupils visibly dilating as the heady smoke took its effect. Tonight she would speak. Tonight she would speak with the voice of God.

She was standing on the high altar, above the crowds, and the space where the Fire would be. Behind her was the towering, empty throne; the seat of the God banished from earth. It was from this vantage that she saw the temple guards bring in the sacrifice; an Elf - he looked around 20, although that meant nothing. He might be millennia old. Bastard. The guards chained him to the stake at the lower altar, over the grate, where the fire would rise up. Foreigners often balked at the ritual that they would perform that tonight. But not the Gondorians. They were insulated from the deed they were about to commit by the cleansing balm of the incense, and the righteous knowledge that they were benefiting the whole of humanity. What was the death of one Elf, blessed beyond what he deserved with a life free from disease and death, when the whole of humanity might be so saved? Melkor was generous in his gifts if his servants were generous with theirs.

The chains of the pulleys could now be heard creaking. The Elf was sweating, panicking. He would be the first to see the flames rising up towards the grate over which he was chained. But soon the flames would rise higher.

He was whimpering, then screaming, as the flames rose up fast about his legs, and carried up through his ragged clothes, like a glowing swarm of insects travelling up his body, creeping across his limbs. He was engulfed; a black silhouette against the flames that swirled around him. All through the temple, the chanting and shouting grew louder, drowning out his screams, the incense covering the reek of burning flesh and hair. Inzilaphel closed her eyes, reaching out with her senses. She could feel the last of the Elf's life about to slide away, fading. Then it was gone. She raised her arms, and the chanting swelled in celebration. Another soul to feed their banished God. Another step to bring him closer. Another day on the road towards his return.

Amcazôr, the High Priest, stepped forward, and began to intone a prayer, the harsh syllables of the ancient Adunaîc tongue resonating off the domed roof, disappearing up through the louver and the tarnished silver dome: _Mûlker, âru n'agannâlo, nimir nênud êphalako kitabda nênud katha…_

He turned to her, indicating that it was time. There was an awed silence in the temple as she turned and walked over to the empty throne. Beside it, on an intricately carved plinth, rested the palantir; the last of the ancient seeing stones. Its surface swirled murkily, like rain clouds being blown across a dark sky. She stood by it, and looked out at the crowd, and then at her father, Ar-Pharazôn, who was standing by Amcazôr. His expression was tense. Only one person had ever survived channelling the Dark Lord's spirit, and that had been an Elf. As for all the rest, their souls had been destroyed by the sheer burning force of His power, their bodies left as empty husks. But who was to say that she might not succeed? She tossed her long black hair, revealing for a second the delicate pointed ears that she usually took care to hide. She was Peredhil, one of the few of her kind tolerated in Gondor. With the blood of both Valinor and Númenor, how could she fail? At least, that was what she had repeated to herself. _Please, Mûlker_ she thought, _grant me this strength._ She looked out determinedly at the crowd.

"Tonight, we shall again hear the voice of our salvation!" she shouted. They were the words she had been told to say, and had repeated, over and over again to herself, trying to convey them with the grandeur that they seemed to merit. She placed her hands on the palantir. The surface was so cold it burned, but she could not pull her hands away. She felt as if she had touched a live wire; power was streaming through her body, but she could not move to take her hands away. Her head snapped back, her eyes wide. Her vision was darkening at the edges. Then it was black. But somehow the darkness was clearer than the light – so dark as to be luminous. It filled her, embraced her like a lover. Then, to those watching, her irises, normally an inky blue, became slowly tinged with red. Purposefully, she brought her head level. Her manner was deadly calm. But it was not really _her_ manner; Inzilaphel was gone, submerged somewhere in the darkness. When she opened her mouth to speak, it was harsh and male.

"I am close to you; so very close. It will not be long now until I walk amongst you."

----------------------------

"It's a miracle she survived, you know"

Galdor's head snapped up from the tabloid that he had been reading with a mixture of disbelief and disgust.

"I'm perfectly aware of that, Eruanna. Given the previous attempts they had made, it was surprising…I'm relieved-"

"It was her Elven blood, I think." said Eruwaedhiel quietly.

Galdor laughed harshly and threw the tabloid to the side.

"Yes, Elven blood! Ha! I find Pharazôn's priorities somewhat warped, don't you? He publicly detests Elves, burns them in his temples, yet has no qualms about fathering a child with one," he just about spat the word 'fathering', "and then there's the child herself! He's so afraid of what we 'terrorists' might do that he fears to let her outside the palace, and yet, when Morgoth's involved it's as if she can come to no harm!" His voice dripped with sarcasm. "The fact that Morgoth probably has more reason to kill her than I ever would…"

"Galdor…" Eruanna frowned and sat down across the table from him "do you have to start every morning with a rant? And besides, I thought Ar-Inzilaphel was one of the few people you _don't_ want dead."

"That's the point!". Eruwaedhiel winced as Galdor raised his voice, and looked Eruanna, who responded:

"He doesn't know that. Especially considering that he _is_ one of those people that you want dead".

Galdor grinned wolfishly, which only furthered the demonic air so familiar from the posters across the city. Galdor Seregon, leader of the Valacirca: wanted for terrorism, treason, sedition, and multiple counts of murder. He looked the part, with oily, shoulder-length hair framing his thin face and a long red scar running from his right temple to his chin. It pulled the corner of his mouth up into a permanent cruel smile. An identikit menace; the evil, heartless Elven terrorist, bent on destroying the Gondorian Empire. At least that was the official story. At the mention of Pharazôn, he had run his finger slowly along the scar.

"Yeah, I do. But, well, sixteen years trying and…"

"…And we haven't given up, and we never will!" Eruanna's eyes were bright.

Galdor smiled, genuinely this time. "Hey, I'm meant to be the ideologue! You're just the translator"

"Just the translator? You wouldn't last a minute without me."

"Well, someone needs to swear in Khuzdul." Eruwaedhiel looked embarrassed.

"Cut it out you two"

"Hmm." Eruanna shrugged, and picked up the newspaper that Galdor had tossed aside. She frowned down at the front page for a moment, then bit her lip.

"What is it?"

"Did you get far enough to read what she said before you started ranting?" Galdor's ears went faintly red.

"No, but isn't it just the usual: immortality, evil Elves, all the general hype of a has-been Dark Lord?"

"I wish. Apparently, he's much closer to the edge of the Void; so closer to us. It sounds like they might have a chance of bringing him back after all." Galdor raised his eyebrows.

"Or the state press agency thinks that it's good PR to say so."

"I don't know, Galdor. Perhaps they can."

"Which heralds the end of the world, no?" he added sarcastically.

"Yeah. And they believe they all go off an live in immortal paradise in the Void or something." interjected Eruwaedhiel.

"Great. I hope this is just PR. Otherwise- "

"-Otherwise we're screwed."

--------------------------------

At the other end of the spectrum, Mithmorn Aeluin was sitting and reading the same newspaper. Beside him sat Pharazôn, the emperor of Gondor; his best friend from boyhood, currently nursing a terrific hangover.

"You're turning the pages too loudly, Mith" moaned Pharazôn. The corners of Mith's mouth twitched, but his eyes remained focused on the paper. He didn't 'do' smiles.

"Well, as consolation, you may be interested to know that the intelligence services have discovered evidence that Seregon may be planning another attack"

"You didn't need a paper to tell me that, Mith"

Mithmorn Aeluin was the commander of the Red Eye Band, the elite 'secret police' of the Gondorian Empire – a man with an ear and eye in every corner of the land.

"True. But I needed something to distract you, did I not?"

"Regardless, it's just as well. We don't need another attack."

"What's this about another attack?" Inzilaphel had appeared at the door. She looked as if she had had as rough a night as her father: here were dark circles about her bloodshot eyes, and her skin was paler than usual. Peredhil or not, you did not commune with Melkor and come away unscathed. Mith looked up from the paper, secretly glad she was feeling well enough to eavesdrop on private conversations again.

"Nothing to worry about. I was just telling your father that we have intelligence suggesting that Seregon may be planning something in the second level. We've increased the threat alert – honestly, it's fine. Oh, and by the way, well done yesterday."

"Thanks" said Inzilaphel "But I still feel like the time I took a bad E." Mith looked disapproving, Pharazôn smiled nervously. Inzilaphel looked awkward.

"So it's all ok then, about the attack?" Her voice was strained; she sensed something coming. She looked at her father, who was looking at Mith.

"Mithmorn," he said, pensively "Even so, do you think we should be increasing the security detail around the residential area of the citadel?"

Inzilaphel rolled her eyes. Mith looked tired.

"I honestly don't think the threat level necessitates that, Pharazôn" Mith was used to this. So was Inzilaphel. Nearly 20 years of drug taking had taken their toll on Pharazôn. From time to time he suffered from bouts of paranoia, and occasionally terrifying flashbacks.

"I don't think you're having a good day, attû," muttered Inzilaphel. Pharazôn rounded on her.

"Don't try to distract me, Zil. This is for your own protection, and you know that."

"Own protection. Yeah, whatever. So I guess I wave any possibility of doing anything outside this summer."

Pharazôn sighed, and kneaded his temples.

"This really isn't the time for an argument, Zil. Please. We're so close; we don't want anything to happen before we can achieve our goal."

"Attû, I'm not asking to anything stupid-,"

Mith snorted quietly

"Perish the thought" Zil shot him a dirty look.

"I'm just wanting some kind of normality; to get out a bit."

Pharazôn looked at her thoughtfully. "We shall see how the threat level progresses. In the mean time, you will stay here, where you are safe. Now please, let me suffer in peace." Zil turned and walked off, muttering darkly under her breath. Mith frowned.

"I think extra security might be of better use to keep her in, not the terrorists out." Pharazôn smiled.

"Don't tempt me." Mith laughed, but he was still worried. He had trained Inzilaphel since she was a child, and he knew just how impetuous she could be. After all, the last thing he had heard her say as she left the room had sounded terribly like "I'll show you…"

Notes:

Adunaîc:

"Mûlker, âru n'agannâlo, nimir nênud êphalako kitabda nênud katha…" - Melkor, king of the death shadow, shine on us from afar, touch us…with your blessing…

"Mûlker" – Morgoth/Melkor (dark lord of the Silmarillion, Sauron's boss.)

"Attû" – father/dad

(my knowledge of Adunaîc is very limited – any advice/corrections would be very welcome)

Sindarin:

"Peredhil" – half Elven

Many thanks to The Evil Witch Queen – if I'm Morgoth, she's Manwë…


	2. The Dreams

Most of this would have Tolkien turning in his grave, but a good deal of the names/places/ideas are his and I make no money from them. Also, thank to everyone who reviewed! Chapter Two – The Dreams 

He always had this nightmare.

He was climbing through the snow, up in the Hithaeglir, and he turned to look back over the valley.

There was smoke, thick choking black smoke rising from it. From Rivendell. Rivendell was burning.

He could hear helicopter blades beating overhead. Then he was standing in the tree-lined avenue that led to the main square, the boughs' heavy blossoms bending them to the ground. Nellas was there. She smiled at him, but then began running along the avenue.

He followed her; he wanted to warn her, but he couldn't speak – his throat was stuck, and he could never run fast enough. As she ran, the blossoms began to fall from the trees; they turned into drops of blood, which fell like rain and stained her golden hair and her white dress. But she kept running, and he couldn't catch her. And then there were bodies hanging from the trees, their faces hideously contorted, lips blue. Rough rope around their necks. He stopped. He always stopped here.

She would cease running. There was a man; there was always a man, dressed in black. He was holding her in his arms as the blood-rain fell.

Then he looked at the bodies on the trees and realised that they were Lord Elrohir's councillors and friends, and the commanders of the guard: his father, his uncle.

He fell to his knees. His throat was stuck. He couldn't scream. He couldn't do anything as he saw the bodies, as he saw Nellas fall to the ground. The man's laughter was ringing in his ears…

"Galdor! Galdor, wake up!" His eyes flew open, the ghost of the laughter still ringing hollowly. Blurrily, a face formed above him. It was Eruanna, another habitual insomniac, who was looking down at him with a concerned expression on her face, her boy-cropped hair sticking up erratically.

"You were screaming in your sleep." She muttered quietly. Galdor rolled over to face the wall, staring on the long crack running through the plaster. It was bad to dream, but worse to wake up. At least in the dream, he didn't have to know what happened next. What happened to Nellas.

"Galdor…" she reached out and put her hand on his shoulder. Angrily, he turned back to face her and pushed her hand away.

"Can't you just bloody well leave me alone?!" he shouted. But he looked vulnerable, sad. Eruanna tried not to react. She was used to this. It was a pattern, a ritual. She couldn't sleep and wandered the halls of the Valacirca, Galdor dreamt, Galdor screamed, and she woke him. There was a silent agreement that she would not ask him what he had dreamt about. But on this occasion, she had seen where his eyes had moved to when he had woken – the corkboard on the wall above his paper-piled desk, upon which were pinned pictures. Among them, military portraits of his father and uncle, standing to attention, uniformed and smiling calmly at the camera; and a softer, informal picture of a girl. She had long golden hair, and was wearing in a white summer dress, the style of which would not have been unusual a century ago. She stood on the edge of a river, by the short drop of a waterfall. The setting sun was caught in the droplets that rose from the falls, surrounding her with an ethereal rainbow. She was turning, as if surprised, to look at the camera. She knew it was this girl that he had dreamed about. Nellas.

"Galdor, it's been sixteen years…"

He looked up at her, a wild, almost guilty look in his eyes. He didn't ask how she knew.

"It wouldn't be so bad if I just dreamt about her." Galdor murmured quietly, "But _he's_ there too…"

Eruanna didn't know what to say, although she had heard this so often. There was an awkward silence, finally broken by the first stupid thing Eruanna could think of to say:

"Nice at least that you have such a pretty picture of her – a good memory." Galdor laughed harshly, the wild look still in his eyes.

"Yeah" A faint, tremulous smirk crossed his face "it's better than the other one…head, (h-)head in one piece". He said it as if it were funny, but as he said it he looked slightly sick. Whenever he was trying not to think about something, he would joke about it. Try to evade what it meant to him. She knew the picture he was talking about – it had been taken by the forensic photographers on the night…She shuddered. The room felt terribly cold. She searched for a distraction:

"Tea? Coffee? Now that you're up, you might as well stay up – it's 5:30" Galdor grimaced faintly.

"I could kill for a coffee"

"You probably have" He glowered at her from behind his hair.

"That's not funny, Anna". And there was a tremor in his voice, like he had a lump in his throat.

They sat at the table in the cramped kitchen. The table, as always, was covered with papers, the gutted insides of computers, the components of weapons, and various plans, as well as several days' worth of leftover and forgotten mugs. Galdor pushed away a ground plan of the Great Temple, and sat down moodily over his mug, gazing down as if the steam rising from the surface of the coffee might provide some oracle with the answer to all his problems. Eruanna left the kitchen, and came back a few moments later brandishing the early edition of a morning paper, just delivered by a contact. She asked Galdor if he wanted it, and when he replied in the negative, she shrugged and sat down to read. Slowly, other dishevelled figures joined them, clutching cups of coffee or bits of toast.

"Morning!" Eruwaedhiel, effervescent as always, as only young teenagers can be (for she was only a mere 2165), came down the stairs two at a time, her short, bubble-gum pink hair bobbing with each step. She surveyed the sombre party.

"Bad night, Galdor?" she asked instinctively.

"Yeah, I…" he waved his hand slowly in the air, as if trying to gather up pieces of thought "I had a nightmare. The usual." Eruwaedhiel sat down at the table, grabbed a piece of toast, and then strained to look over her sister's shoulder at the paper. Eruanna made a noise of annoyance.

"You can read the paper when I'm done!" Waedh looked peeved.

"Just wanted to know if there was anything interesting going on." Eruanna scanned the page she was reading, trying to find something to shut her up.

"Not much. Uh…Inzilaphel is back at the palace for the summer. Apparently that's news." Galdor looked up and grinned. Not a proper smile. Just a pretence.

"How much do you want to bet that Pharazôn's famous paranoia is kicking in?" Everyone laughed, except Eruwaedhiel.

"I don't think it's funny. I feel kinda sorry for her" she mumbled.

"Sorry?" said auburn-haired Heriadlas, whose head was wrapped in a wet towel. "Whatever for?"

"Well, she's stuck. Like me. Can't go anywhere, can't do anything, and has no one to talk to" this was a familiar complaint of Eruwaedhiel's; at 15, she was deemed too young to have any active involvement in their actions, and consequently, due to the security risk, too young to be allowed out. She spent a good deal of her time doing what she was best at – cannibalizing gadgets and hacking. She was merely a support. She doubted Inzilaphel had any such outlet. Predictably, those around the table used to her whining sighed.

"I'm sure Inzilaphel doesn't complain anything like you do" muttered Heriadlas.

"Wanna bet?"

-----------------------

Mithmorn was looking for Inzilaphel - hardly a difficult task, considering the loud music that could be heard thumping from her room from several corridors away. Angsty teen-metal: _I can't believe you lied to me/it's like I'm dying inside/now everything you said to me, I can't believe/I've gotta leave you now/I won't remain, knowing what you've done… _He didn't bother knocking – she wouldn't have heard him if he had, and besides, she would know he was coming anyways – a fringe benefit of being half Elven. She may have been descended from an illegitimate line of the house of Finwë, but some of their powers still remained. He entered the room, and picked his way through Inzilaphel's unique teenage detritus – along with the expected girly magazines and clothes were several large and battered tomes on political theory, as well as a few paper target cards – all peppered with near-perfect bull's eyes. Inzilaphel was sitting on the window seat, her feet put up on the back of a chair. She looked up at Mith in annoyance over the top of her book, and turned down the music with a black-nailed hand. _This is it, I'm changing my allegiance/how can you expect me to stay?/ This is it, my finger's on the trigger, the bullet's in you're head/this is my thanks for lying…_

"What is it now?" she moaned. A caring look didn't sit well on Mith's face – this was a man who took pleasure in the feeling of steel-toed boot connecting soundly with a face – but he affected one all the same – Zil was one of the few people that Mith felt warranted any affection.

"I just wanted to inform you about your father's request yesterday – I have," he sighed resignedly "agreed to increase the security detail in the residential area. The changes will be in place as of tomorrow" Inzilaphel responded by throwing her book across the room. It hit the wall, and slid down it slowly. Mith didn't bat an eyelid.

"And that will aid the situation, how, princess?" he asked archly. Inzilaphel rolled her eyes.

"Can't you just tell him 'no' for once!?"

"I doubt that would be wise. Childhood friend or no, positions are fragile. It's better to cater to small whims" Inzilaphel gritted her teeth.

"'Small whims'? 'Small whims'! Well excuse me, but that small whim kinda has bigger effects on me!" Mith sighed.

"And your response is precisely why I am here; just because you find the situation displeasing does not mean you should react adversely to it" Inzilaphel raised an eyebrow.

"Meaning?"

"You know perfectly well what I mean – you are to stay in the citadel. Do you understand me?" Inzilaphel rolled her eyes again, but looked resigned. Mith nodded.

"Good. I'll try to fit in some extra training sessions for you". He turned and headed out the door.

"I don't need compensation, Mith!" she called after his retreating back. When he had closed the door she made an annoyed noise. "And I don't need protection either". She scanned the room, and then went to pick up the book she had thrown. She went back and sat at the window. She turned the music back up. _This is your end and my beginning/ now I understand, that I've been trapped/God, how I hate you, you and your lies…, _sighed and looked out the window, down the layers of concentric circles of the city, just visible over the parapet wall. Her eyes stormed darkly.

"Attû" she murmured angrily. Then quickly, without even bothering to turn the music off, she stormed off down the hall to her father's study.

She had always thought that 'study' was something of a strange term for it. Admittedly, the designation dated back to the time of the Return of the King and to Tar Elessar – who one could imagine sitting in a book-lined room and reading scholarly texts, or something like that. Now the shelves were filled only partially with books, but also with various objects that her father could find no other home for. The desk was littered with a few official papers, and some framed photographs – Zil as a small child, and an old one of Pharazôn and Mith as teenagers. There was also one of her mother, Nellas, who stood with long golden hair, half concealing her ears, and an unreadable smile. She knew very little about her mother. Save that she had been a princess, and had been murdered by Galdor Seregon, angry that she had chosen to ally herself with humans, when Inzilaphel was only one. Murdered. She hated the word. But that photo especially gave the room a lived-in, rather than just studied-in feel. Although to her knowledge, Pharazôn never really studied in there. He just used it as an extension of his rooms, normally when he wanted some privacy to read the paper, or, more often, to get high, or plan death lists. Sometimes he watched porn, but Zil wasn't meant to know about that. But it was understandable that she often approached her father's study with some trepidation and a loud knock on the door. When she did this, there was silence for a moment, and then a rather boyish giggle. Zil frowned, then slowly pushed open the door. A sticky-sweet smell greeted her, borne on a faint smoke. She made a noise of derision in her throat – Manôzil. So there would be no sense to be got out of her father for some time. So much for begging him to change his mind about the security update. She was about to shut the door and hope he didn't notice her, when he spoke. Or rather he gasped, and then muttered fearfully.

"A-artamir?" Zil frowned in annoyance. He really was out of it. Artamir was her father's older brother – her uncle – who had been killed some years before her birth in a hunting accident.

"Come back to haunt me, Artamir?" he asked, almost brash and defiant. "You think you can make me sorry for what I did?" Zil froze. _What I did_? And he laughed. Or rather giggled. Or perhaps both. A sort of half-way laugh.

"I can't believe you fell for that! Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid…" he kept muttering it. And then he laughed again, and spoke in a high, mocking voice. "I'm sorry, Artamir, I won't be able to come along. But you go, yes, you go. I wouldn't want you to miss such a nice trip. Not after we'd planned it so." And he looked straight at her. An electric jolt ran through her. But he didn't register her presence. Well, not her. He spoke to her:

"And then, you know what they told me, Artamir? Your brother's dead, your highness." He laughed again. "Of course he's fucking dead! Oh, I made sure you were, Artamir. I couldn't let you be king and not me. Oh no…" Zil realized that she was trembling, her fingers holding the edge of the door so tightly that her knuckles had gone white. _ I made sure you were_. Her mind was racing. Pharazôn was never meant to come to the throne; Artamir had been older – the heir. It was only by his death that her father…She didn't want to think the next part, but she had to. Her father laughed again.

"Mithmorn said he made it quick, Artamir. So you'll excuse me if I don't take pity on your ghost." And he giggled, as if this was the funniest thing he had ever heard. His head drooped sleepily for a moment, and then he raised it again, and looked straight at her again.

"Oh, it was worth it…worth it, worth it, worth it…because now I'm king…king…king…" he mumbled the word into nothingness. The drug was taking further effect. As he slid into a deeper dream, he mumbled inaudible. Zil shut the door, and stood with her back against it. She slid down and knelt on the floor. _Mithmorn said he made it quick…it was worth it…_ The words kept echoing. _Stupid, stupid, stupid…_ She was trembling, the thought she couldn't think was clawing its way to the surface. _Of course he's fucking dead! _Her father had…she bit her lip. She was no stranger to death, nor to murder, as the papers of the resistance forces so often described the sacrifices of the temples. She had seen Mith shoot an Elven prisoner in the face; she herself was trained to fight and to kill, even if she never had. But killing, murdering, however you wanted to employ the language…murdering Elves and traitors was one thing. One's own brother was another entirely. She got up and stumbled back to her room. The changes in security had sunk to insignificance now, except perhaps for the fact that she would have to face him. He would be impossible to avoid, at such close quarters in the palace. She felt sick. Him and Mith. She couldn't face them, she couldn't. She closed the door of her room, and sank down onto the chair by the window. The music she had left on in her hurry was still playing – the song had been on repeat, and now the familiar lyrics came again, their meaning suddenly horrifically changed for her. _I can't believe you lied to me/it's like I'm dying inside/now everything you said to me, I can't believe/I've gotta leave you now/I won't remain, knowing what you've done…_

"I won't remain, knowing what you've done" she whispered. The new security measures wouldn't be in place until tomorrow. There was still time, she thought. She didn't care that it would be foolish and dangerous. She had to breathe. She had to get out.

Notes:

Hithaeglir – the misty mountains

Attû – Adunaîc for 'father'

Manôzil – (this is totally made up by me, sorry) a flower similar to an opium poppy. IE.

Pharazôn is out of his head on this…

Valacirca – the name of the Elven terrorist/freedom fighter organization run by Galdor.

It means "sickle of the Valar" – the name of a constellation said to symbolise

the doom of Melkor.

Finwë – high king of the Noldorin Elves in Valinor.

On Eruwaedhiel's age: I've seen a variety of aging systems used for Elves in fanfics. Tolkien said that the Elves' own system of measuring time was a yén – 144 solar years. I would guess that if this is how they calculate time, it says something about their aging. So I'm calculating ages like that. So when I say Waedh is 2165 years old, that's 15 yén. I'll probably stick to giving Elven ages in yén from now on, just so that you're aware.


	3. Maeglin

Ok, apologies for the horrifically long time it has taken me to update this. I have had prelim exams, university applications, and am in the process of writing three 4000 word dissertations, and so have been going slightly crazy…but I'm still alive! For now… 

My beta has also had a lot of work, so she sends her apologies as well.

Hopefully you have not all totally lost interest in the interim. 

Thanks to all who reviewed! Any further feedback would be greatly appreciated – I'm still not particularly proficient at writing fiction.

Warning: if you don't like blood, skip the italics.

Chapter Three – Maeglin 

_From one side, she might have been sleeping, if it were not for the blood that trickled down across the bridge of her nose, and welled up through her hair from the bloody halo pooled on the stone around her head. Her eyes were half open, the whites bloody, and a crimson drop, like a tear, trickled down slowly from her left eye. From the other side, you had no illusions. The side of her head was caved in – beneath the blood, you could imagine how her skull was filigreed with cracks radiating out from the fist-sized crater. The bullet hole. Fragments fanned out on the ground: blood, flesh, something white, which might have been bone. But maybe not. Too gelatinous. Her skin was almost as pale as the stone she lay on. It had been, even in life, but now looked like thin as rice paper. Cold. Almost blue with bloodless whiteness. Her hair was a colour that wavered between white-blond and gold. It looked washed out under the lights the police had put up, the fine strands meshing and overlapping like the intricate lacy veins on leaves where everything else has been eaten away by insects. The blood that had seeped up through it, like the dye on the hem of a silk dress, was drying brown. _

_Who would have thought there would be so much blood? It tricked down, it seeped up; her white dress had begun to soak up the pooling blood, and the faint rivulets running up the warp and weft made it look as if she was blurring, descending maybe, into the pool that surrounded her body. It looked wrong, red. Too violent a colour for such a slight frame; like a dried beech leaf. _

_A squat policeman was leading him over now. You didn't need to look at his pupils – from the dreamlike way he walked, it was obvious that they would be dilated, merging with his inky irises – more dark pits. For him, the scene would drip and sway, most likely, the colours would blur, shift, shine out. He was at the end of…what?…a bad trip? It would have sounded funny, any other time. Disoriented, he pushed his dark hair out of his eyes as the policeman spoke to him quietly. Only a few words drifted over_: …point blank…was shot…the head…was probably instant…_ The policeman was showing him the gun in its evidence bag, and he was squinting at it, as if that would make him understand. Meanwhile, men in white covered the body with a sheet, slid it onto a stretcher, to take it away. Pharazôn didn't react. He swayed a little, then pushed his hair out of his eyes again. The policeman was trying to be nice about it, he put his hand on the king's shoulder, looked into his face…_what about the child, your highness_…And Pharazôn started laughing, at something maybe only he could see, or maybe something only he knew, or some irony._

The medics lifted the stretcher and its clean, white parcel. They moved slowly, but the edge of the sheet untucked, a hand lolled out, disembodied, bloody…

…what about the child?…

Silmarwen woke up. Her lips moved silently: _what about the child?_ She sat up and opened her eyes. Not that it made much difference. Her eyes weren't the milky orbs that might have been expected in a human – no Elf was born blind. But they were blurred and grey – shabby remnants of former perfection. Her world was shadows now; faint outlines only. And _fëar_, sometimes. She reached out, and found the familiar rough edge of the bedside table. Her hands slid across it, fingertips crossing grains and cracks in the old wood, bumping up and down these faint hills and valleys, until they connected with the sharp cold metal of the clock. The glass front had been removed so that she could feel where the icy hands pointed – 11 o'clock, she guessed. Why had she woken? There were fragments of the dream still floating in her mind. She closed her eyes, a relic of her former mannerisms, trying to catch them together. Subconsciously, she remembered what she had dreamt about…

Her feet hit the floor, it was disorienting – you never quite understand the way your body sways and lurches as you run, balancing all weight onto one leg or the other, a precarious, miraculous balancing act, each toe of vital importance, until the movement is all you know. She couldn't focus on a point to run towards. There were no points. Just greyness, and sound, sharper and clearer than it had been when she could see, and the faint, pulsating light of people. She had tried to run, oh, she had tried, but her body couldn't co-ordinate the motion without the sight, she resorted to flinging herself desperately from wall to wall, hoping to propel herself forward, clinging onto things, and advancing in the direction her sighted memory suggested. She lurched outside, and the cold autumn air hit her, a dry, spicy wind. In her mind, her sight focused on the gold outline standing at the other end of the courtyard. She could hear the figure muttering, a strained, no, a desperate, tiny voice. Saying what? 'No'? 'Please'? 'Elbereth'? She wasn't sure. The blood pounding in her ears drowned it out. She knew that she had reached out, had shouted something – 'no!' or 'stop!', or maybe 'Nellas!' – she had stumbled forward, trying to stop something, to save her. If she could have run…but it was useless to think that. She had heard the shot. It had reverberated inside her chest. Her uncooperative feet had stumbled, and she had fallen, hitting the stone, skinning her palms, although she hadn't noticed. She had lain helpless as she watched the golden light fade. Only then had she realised that there was something warm on her face. Warm and wet, tricking slowly down across her cheek. Blood. She had been so close. There were footsteps beating on the flagstones, minute vibrations through her hands, and voices shouting – they had heard the shot. Too late, thought Silmarwen. We were all too late. She tried to get up, but faltered. She could smell the blood, acrid and metallic, as if it was a humidity in the air, seeping into her nostrils, her lungs, and moving through her body like a poisonous smog. She could feel this sudden…absence…of a person, so palpably, so tangibly – it was like a hole had opened up in the universe – to feel a person just…go out…like a candle. She wished she could look up and see the sky, and know something bigger, and wider, a world beyond this tragedy played out before her. She felt trapped in the limit of her remaining senses – the smell of the blood, the stinging of her scratched hands, the mental ache, and a metallic taste as a trickle of blood came past the corner of her mouth, half-open in shock. There was nothing to remind her of anything beyond this. Bile rose in her mouth, and her head swam. The gun must have been right to her temple, she though. And she was sick on the ground in front of her.

Why had she dreamt about that, of all things? She ran the dream fragments past herself again, trying to suppress the memories that accompanied the recollection. _The child_, she thought fitfully, trying to push away the rising feeling of nausea in the pit of her stomach. Not so much a child any more, she mused. And she stood, swaying until her feet adjusted to the tiny irregularities of the worn rug by the bed. She felt suddenly purposeful. She walked slowly, shuffling, to the wall, and running her fingers across the pitted painted surface, she walked until her fingertips found the varnished doorframe, and she opened the door. She could navigate the citadel like that well – she had known it all by sight once, so it was only a matter of connecting her knowledge to other senses – touch and hearing. Her fingers moved across rough stone walls, painted plaster, and her feet felt their way down worn steps. It was a new landscape; one of hairline cracks and wood grain. Her senses seemed to bristle out like the whiskers of a cat, giving her a feeling for the space she was in. But no replacement for sight. Nothing could replace that.

In a low corridor, she paused, and 'looked' ahead. There was a glow at the end of the corridor – an aura, as the humans might have called it, but perhaps more properly a _fëa_. It was distinctive – two-coloured, black and gold, the two colours constantly changing and pushing against each other for dominance. Two essences that should not be put together fighting for space. Silmarwen stopped, and called out:

"Inzilaphel." The fëa froze, and rippled as the body that encased it turned. Silmarwen could sense fear.

"Don't worry." she said quietly. The figure stayed where it was. "Come here" she added, and it moved towards her, slowly. When the shape was close, she reached out her hand to where the face should be, and ran her fingers across the jaw line, the mouth, the eyebrows – 'looking' at the expression. Inzilaphel didn't flinch. Much as she disliked Silmarwen, she was used to this, as much as one could be used to it. Silmarwen smiled slowly.

"Where are you going?" Had she been able to, she would have seen Inzilaphel start.

"G-going, Silmarwen?" Inzilaphel whispered quietly, "I'm just wandering – insomnia". It sounded stupid, even Inzilaphel herself knew that. Silmarwen dropped her hands away from the girl's face, and sighed.

"You know that's a lie." She paused, watching as the edges of Inzilaphel's fëa pulsated with emotion – fear, probably, but possibly anger. When she spoke, her voice shook slightly:

"What does it matter?" Silmarwen smiled and shook her head.

"It doesn't, not really. But you should always tell someone where you're going. And possibly why." She grinned. Inzilaphel shuddered. Even taking into account people like the high priest Amcazôr with his fascination for blood, or the guards who leered when she wore a short skirt and tried to look up it as she climbed stairs, Silmarwen was easily the creepiest thing in the citadel. Creepy, not for normal, obvious reasons, but for the way she stared at you, as if even though she couldn't see you, she was piercing you more deeply. The way she seemed to enjoy telling you your thoughts just before you yourself voiced them. Her habit of turning up in just the right place at exactly the wrong moment, with exactly the right inclination for what was happening. Silmarwen grinned wolfishly.

"I know, I'm a pain, aren't I?" Inzilaphel started again. Loath as she was to believe it, there were times when the only way to explain Silmarwen was to accept the story that one of her ancestors had been begotten by the grace of the Valar. Inzilaphel wasn't sure if that was quite possible, or even what exactly it meant, but a link with the demons of the West would certainly explain a lot. She seethed quietly. How dare this nîmir nose into her business?

"Fuck off, Silmarwen" she muttered. Silmarwen acted as though she hadn't heard.

"Why are you going?" she asked, suddenly. Inzilaphel lashed out:

"Mûlker! I told you, I'm not going bloody anywhere!"

"I can understand you perfectly well without the expletives, you know" Silmarwen gave another grin. "Though I suppose you get that from your father". At the mention of the word 'father', Silmarwen saw Inzilaphel's aura flicker for a second. What was it? Love? Anger?…Fear?

"So he is the reason you're leaving." she said. It wasn't intended to be a question.

"I'm not…" Inzilaphel began to retort hotly, before suddenly realising what Silmarwen had said. In the elf's vision, Inzilaphel's fëa continued to flicker with emotion.

"What in the Void makes you think-"

"Just a hunch"

The gold swirled, pushing down the black momentarily. Silmarwen smiled faintly to herself.

"I'm not going to stop you from going" she said, "although I don't pretend to know where you mean to go, or why, or for how long. Or even whether you understand what an idiotic thing you're doing." Inzilaphel just stared at her, although she couldn't see it. "I don't suppose you'd like to tell me?" Inzilaphel made a derisive nasal noise.

"Tell you what?"

"Anything you like" At any other time, there would have been a lot of things she would have liked to tell Silmarwen, most racially abusive, despite the irony this constituted. But not now. She was too shaken. And besides, no one else ever asked. About anything. Ever. She bit her lip. Silmarwen seemed to be looking at her intently, but she knew that wasn't possible. She shifted back and forth on the balls of her feet, sighed, bit her lip again, and then whispered tremulously:

"…Artamir…"

Silmarwen's expression was unreadable.

"So you know."

"I think…"

"You do."

"That's why-"

"I know." Silmarwen's mouth twitched faintly into a half smile. She reached out clumsily, and put a hand on Inzilaphel's shoulder.

"Don't do anything too stupid, if you can manage it…and try to come back. Alive, if possible." Inzilaphel just looked at her for a second; at the half-closed eyes, which blurred from dim pupils to grey irises and then to whites, as if someone had drawn them in pastel crayon and smudged it with the end of their finger, and at the pointed ears peeking through a curtain of silvery hair. She frowned, and then turned quickly and walked away, trying to disguise the shudder in her breathing. She was not going to cry. Not in front of Silmarwen. Not right now. She couldn't. She couldn't even think.

Silmarwen herself stood, watching the shape disappearing down the corridor.

_And so Maeglin leaves the wood_, she thought. _The end is beginning, for good or ill._

Glossary:

_fëar_ – souls/spirits, as seen in the form of auras (not particularly Tolkien, probably, but oh well – I thought it seemed cool.)

Elbereth – Elvish goddess of the stars (although I think, or at least seriously hope, we all knew that)

Nîmir – Adunaîc word for "Elf"

Mûlker – Morgoth

Void – Morgoth was imprisoned in the "Void", a sort of space outside of Arda. Effectively, another dimension, I would guess…what a cliché…

Maeglin – the son of Eöl and Aredhel. As in "Of Maeglin" in the Silmarillion. He left Nan Elmoth and went to Gondolin, betraying his father. And eventually his people. Really pretty screwed up guy…10 points to anyone who can spot at least one way in which he's similar to Inzilaphel :D


End file.
